


Arguments, arguments (in which Sherlock always gets his way)

by awoof



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Everyone loves Lestrade, Fluff, Lestrade is Annoyed, M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock is a Brat, kind of setlock warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awoof/pseuds/awoof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Greg have some arguments. Sherlock always gets his ways. Nothing too angsty I promise. Don't proceed if you don't want to have anything to do with #setlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously the #setlock photo of Toby (I guess that's his name) made me write this. Enjoy!

Detective Inspector Lestrade was not in a good mood.

 

First, there was this gruesome murder that had the Yard bamboozled for days. And THEN, said murder turned out to be a serial killing. With two more bodies and a stubborn bastard by the name of Sherlock Holmes who refused to help out, Greg had had three nights without sleep before the lunatic was finally captured.

 

It didn’t help at all when said absolutely knackered detective inspector opened the door to an absolutely hyped… dog.

 

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted at the pleased-looking man sitting on his sofa, “What the hell is this?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s Toby. Honestly, Greg, your memory never fails to astound me.”

 

The detective inspector scrutinized the waggling tail for a few moments before finally registering the brown and black thingy as John and Mary’s new dog.

 

“Why did they leave him to you?” Greg asked, quizzically, before quickly replacing the question with a new one, “No. Scratch that. Did you feed him any of your toxic chemicals?”

 

“Why would I ever try to kill Toby? Look at him, he’s healthy and bouncing around. Surely it wasn’t such a great leap to reach the conclusion that I haven’t fed him anything poisonous.”

 

Greg sighed and gently pushed the eager dog away from soaking his pants with saliva. “I am changing my clothes and I am sleeping right away. I need a solid eight hours of sleep. Don’t disturb me,” he said, and as an afterthought, he turned around and glared at Sherlock, “No sex tonight.”

 

Ignoring the petulant whine behind him, he took a quick shower before stumbling onto the bed in a lethargic mess. Against his biological need to sleep, however, he made a call to John before he was dead to the world.

 

“John?”

 

“Yeah. Greg, you sound exhausted.”

 

“I am, yeah. Look, I am just calling you to confirm whether you just left Sherlock your dog or not. I could never tell if he’s just lying.”

 

“I did. Thanks for checking in, Greg. Mary and I would be back in a week. We’ll put you out of misery soon.”

 

“Ta. Goodnight, John.”

 

“Goodnight.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go buy dog food.

Greg has never bought any dog food before.

 

Standing in front of the rows of bagged canine food, he randomly picked one with a cute puppy logo and frowned while studying the gibberish on the labels.

 

_Sensitive skin & stomach_

_Grain free recipe_

_Premium selection_

“Wrong,” Sherlock said next to him and grabbed that bag out of Greg’s hands.

 

“Hey! I was reading that,” Greg complained.

 

“Toby is a medium sized dog. That’s for small puppies aged 1.” Sherlock pointed at the small sign at the bottom left of the bag.

 

“God. Do human babies have that many selections to choose from?” Greg said, looking up and frowning at the huge rows of dog food in front of them.

“They are worse. I would never go shopping with John and Mary ever again.” Sherlock said in a disgruntled voice. He turned away and walked down the isle of dog food. Greg hurried along.

 

“Where are you going?” Greg stopped and asked, when instead of stopping to look at another kind of dog food, Sherlock went straight out of the shop.

 

“Out,” Sherlock replied curtly, his coat billowing behind him in the gush of air-conditioning at the door.

 

“Out where?” Greg asked hopelessly. When Sherlock didn’t answer, he sighed and jogged to catch back up with him. “Oi,” Greg grabbed at Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock turned around in annoyance and said, “I am making Toby his own dog food.”

 

“No. Definitely not. You’re going to kill him.”

 

“Those bagged dog food are stupid. Why would a dog want to eat anything as disgusting as that?”

 

“They are dogs. They eat everything.”

 

“I am not subjecting Toby to such atrocity.” With that, Sherlock got rid of Greg’s grip and walked to the direction of the main road.

 

Seeing that there’s nothing to do to stop him, Greg sighed in defeat and went back into the shop himself to study the stupid labels.

 

By the time he had picked up the right kind of dog food (and with the help of the shop assistant, and he couldn’t remember the type and age of Toby, which resulted in him describing Toby in primitive language such as “large ears” “slightly ugly looking” and “kind of dumb. He doesn’t sit when I told him to”) (luckily the shop assistant was quite good at deducing what type of dog Toby was), it was quite late, and he hurried back to his flat, hoping to stop Sherlock from doing something really terrible, like food poisoning the dog, in time.

 

And of course, Greg was too late to save the dog from Sherlock’s concoction.

 

“Oh my god,” Greg muttered, seeing Toby licking at the last remnants of the stuff at the bottom of the dog bowl.

 

“Ah, you are back,” Sherlock smiled and kissed Greg on his cheeks, “Toby seems to love his own dog food.”

 

“I hope he doesn’t die,” Greg said.

 

“He won’t,” Sherlock told him.

 

As it turned out, Toby was as good as before.

 

And also as it turned out, when Greg tried to feed him with some normal bagged dog food, Toby had absolutely zero interest in the small brownish lumps. Greg told Sherlock that Toby was spoiled. Sherlock agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg had almost never arrived at crime scenes with Sherlock. The consulting detective probably deemed himself too classy for something as distasteful as a police car.

 

Greg had certainly never arrived at a crime scene with Sherlock and a dog.

 

“If he pees in the car, I will never bottom again,” Greg warned dangerously.

 

“Oh, detective inspector, I wouldn’t be so sure myself,” Sherlock flashed him a smile as the two of them descended the stairs to 221B, Toby trotting along with a leash on, “you definitely enjoyed it.”

 

“You berk.”

 

Luckily, Toby had behaved exactly as Sherlock had predicted. Greg wasn’t sure he would be able to keep up his promise anyway. “I still can’t believe I am doing this,” Greg groaned, as he pulled up his squad car next to the crime scene, “Sally would probably rip my throat out.”

 

“Toby’s going to be helpful, aren’t you?” Sherlock grinned at the dog and petted him. Toby let out a satisfied whine.

 

“Just... keep the leash on, and don’t let him near the body, okay?” Greg sighed.

 

“I most certainly will. And ah, here comes Donovan.”

 

A very irritated DS Donovan ducked out under the tape and angrily walked towards Greg and Sherlock.

 

“What. Is. Going. On. Here,” she gritted through her teeth.

 

Sherlock smiled at Donovan. Bloody smiled, that git. Like he was a very proud parent showing off his progeny or whatsoever.

 

“This is Toby, and he’s my sniffer dog.”

 

“No… what? Sherlock, you told me you’re just taking him out for some fresh air!” Greg protested.

 

“Fresh air is boring. The blood and scent will be a very good training to his olfactory senses.”

 

Greg wanted to smack himself on his head. Or smother Sherlock with a pillow.

 

“Sherlock,” he warned in a dangerously deep voice and glared right at his eyes.

 

Sherlock ignored him and walked straight pass them to the body. For a moment, Greg honestly considered handcuffing Sherlock and dragging him away. But maybe he just had a tiny bit of a submissive kink. More than tiny, perhaps, Greg secretly admitted, as he rubbed his face wearily and followed Sherlock instead.

 

“Boss!” Donovan hissed and grabbed his wrists.

 

“I’ll keep an eye on him, okay?” Greg sighed.

 

He watched Sherlock pace around the dead body with Toby leashed close to him, pointing and talking to Toby occasionally and telling him where to sniff.

 

“Sherlock, you come here not to train the dog, but to do actual detective work,” Greg snapped.

 

“I am teaching Toby the distinct smells of blood, which will be highly useful to tracking down victims,” Sherlock said. He suddenly frowned, and Greg knew he found something useful.

 

“Take it,” Sherlock handed out the leash to Greg.

 

“What?”

 

“Take the leash,” Sherlock said impatiently.

 

“I am not your servant,” Greg protested. But he still took the leash. Which just showed how fucked up Greg was.

 

Sherlock swooped down in one fluid motion and reached his hand into the victim’s mouth. He retrieved a tiny ball of paper.

 

“What is that?” Greg asked, while holding Toby back from licking the blood still oozing from the victim’s head.

 

“A signal,” Sherlock said while studying it.

 

“Of what?” Greg frowned, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t go bounding off again without saying anything.

 

“Of something dangerous,” Sherlock put the ball of paper in his pocket and of course, he took off immediately without saying a word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sibling rivalries.

To be honest, Greg was surprised it took two days before Mycroft eventually intervened. _Legwork_ , he remembered Sherlock telling him.

It started out a nice lazy Sunday morning in 221B. Greg flipped some pancakes in the kitchen, humming a silly tune as he slid breakfast onto the plates, while Sherlock sipped tea and checked messages on his phone. Toby was lying contently on the floor next to Sherlock after a spectacular belly-rubbing session, when he suddenly sat up and hunched his ears towards the direction of the door.

A second later there was a knock on the door downstairs.

Client, was Greg’s first thought, but there was only one person on the whole planet earth that could turn Sherlock’s face into a massive scowl in less than a second. Not even Anderson.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked even though he already knew the answer.

Downstairs there was some noise of the door opening and the accompanying enthusiastic welcome from Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes,” Sherlock spitted. He scooped up Toby from the floor and walked to the door with the dog in his arms. Knowing Sherlock, it couldn’t be good.

“Wait!” Greg dumped the pan into the sink and hurriedly ran over to block Sherlock from the door. “What are you doing?”

“Pest removal.”

A familiar ‘clonk’ of umbrella knocking on wood came from the stairs.

“Sherlock,” Greg sighed, “Can’t you just have a civil conversation with your brother like normal people?”

“Civility is overrated.”

Greg felt like smacking his head when the door opened.

“Ah, what a warm welcome, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s lips twisted into a smirk, before tilting his head towards Greg, “Detective Inspector.”

Greg folded his arms in a defensive position and glared at Mycroft.

“What do you want,” Greg asked.

“I apologize for interrupting the…” Mycroft flitted his eyes towards the kitchen, “domesticity. But I happen to understand that John has, against better judgement, temporarily put his dog under your care, and I have come to offer professional help.”

Sherlock remained silent, so Greg continued, “And what exactly does the professional help entail?”

“Dog trainers, nutritionists, vets, anything that you might require when having a pet.”

And even thought Greg may not like Mycroft, he was tempted to accept his help. Food, as demonstrated the day before, was a headache, and Greg still hadn’t been able to keep Toby from snugging up between him and Sherlock in bed. He certainly did not enjoy having dog fur inside his nose as a wake-up call.

“Well…”

“No,” Sherlock finally said.

“But Sherlock…” Greg tried.

Sherlock promptly ignored him and chose to stare at Mycroft. “Thank you for your proposition, but you have out-stayed your welcome.”

Mycroft stepped forward, unfazed. “Don’t be childish, Sherlock.”

Greg expected some sort of tongue lashing between the siblings, but apparently Sherlock’s definition of civility was especially twisted today. In a split second, Sherlock had lifted Toby in his arms right up in Mycroft’s face, and being the enthusiastic dog that he was, he licked a wet stripe up on Mycroft’s cheeks.

Mycroft stumbled backwards and Sherlock took the chance to slam the door in his face.

“Good boy, Toby,” Sherlock told the dog in his arms, “You are a very good pest repellent.”

Greg partly wanted to hand some wipes to Mycroft, but well, it wasn’t a daily occurrence for Mycroft to have saliva all over his face, and Greg certainly didn’t want to ruin the fun.

“You are disgusting,” he chided Toby.

Toby didn’t give a shit and just licked Greg back.

 

The following morning Greg found a sparkly pink dog bowl with princess-y glittery words “Sherlock <3<3<3 Toby” in the middle of the living room. He made sure to feed Toby with the bowl that day.


End file.
